Thursday, November 29, 2012

Musings on the comic book business: Well, the writing side of it, that is.

I've worked just about every side of the comic book business. Retail. Comic supplies wholesale. Creator. Even (self)publisher. When I walked away from it, I really walked away.

For a time I worked as a writer in comics, for several publishers. During that time I wrote scripts for a host of indie comic book publishers, plus more well known companies like Kitchen Sink and Marvel Comics. It's a very weird industry in which to work. Sometimes things go well, but almost always there are things about it that are indeed strange and poisonous.

Part of the problem is that the industry lends itself to the exploitation of those who work in it. Both the writers and artists are often victims of the theft of their intellectual property. What was done to the likes of Jerry Siegel and Joe Shuster, Bill Finger, Jerry Robinson, and, of course, Jack Kirby and Steve Ditko is a how-to when it comes to committing acts of crime against the powerless.

Because the industry has been so well rewarded for the rape of the creators, it remains to this day a place where the abuse of the men and women who create the ideas and images continues. It's no wonder that, for a while, those creators rebelled and went into self-publishing. Of course that option has largely faded with the creation of distribution monopoly--but that's not really the point of today's essay and example.

What I wanted to write about was my own experience of working in comics. It's hard to toil in the industry without creating new characters for any company who cuts you a check (or promises you a check which could very well never come--another tale). Even peripheral characters can take up a life of their own and become bankable. And such "properties" will likely be stolen the second they become a marketable commodity for the publisher.

I'm also not here to argue or bemoan work-for-hire. That has been argued well and with passion by many others. I'll leave that to the more qualified folk. There are lawyers and businessmen and essayists who can plead those various cases with passion and intelligence that eclipse my own. (But work-for-hire sucks, just to make clear where I stand.)

I created characters even for Marvel Comics when I worked there briefly. One, in particular, was a fellow named "Hunger" who was a monster (called a cenobite) in the anthology series CLIVE BARKER'S HELLRAISER. He was used by other writers. One of them told me how he was going to write the character's origin. Imagine that. Long story short: unless you are very careful you lose everything the minute you agree to write for any comics company, big or small, famous or obscure.

At Marvel I soon discovered that my work was being reprinted without payment to me for various murky legal reasons. I moved on.

I figured at last that I'd receive better treatment at smaller publishing houses. Because they were out there struggling like I was and fighting the good fight. Why would they do the wrong thing? I reasoned that such companies would be free of the kinds of poison creators faced at the big publishing houses.

I was wrong.

At one point I was approached to write a continuing series for a certain smaller publisher. (I'm not going to name the publisher or the imprint because that would be advertising and I'm not going to do this slime any favors.) A page rate was offered and I deemed it fair and proceeded. Scripts were delivered, some checks arrived, I continued to write more scripts. And then...checks ceased to arrive. I stopped delivering scripts. Fair enough.

Eventually, the publisher became upset that I would be annoyed that I had not been paid for work done. This is always the path taken by those who exploit others. It's the same wherever the scam is repeated. At last, I told the publisher not to publish my scripts unless I was paid the rate promised. This was, of course, not done. I never received payment for most of the work I'd done, and the scripts were rendered into art, and the art was published. I never saw the published work, but I have heard that my name was not on it. I haven't seen what was done to that script, but I can only assume that I would be very happy that my name was left off.

(At the time, the artist slated to illustrate this script was, like me, an unknown creator. Today, I'm still largely an unknown. He, however, went on to become quite well known in the industry and is now something of a fan favorite with a large following.)

After I delivered this script, I have seen some of my ideas lifted by other writers. They would probably plead coincidence, but.... The comic book business is a poisonous one. Work in it only if your eyes are wide open and your expectations are greatly diminished.

Here, then, is a portion of the script I delivered many years ago for a silly little horror comic, and for which I was never paid.

TITLE WITHHELD

Issue One"Rebel"

Page One

This
page is a series of panels of a pair of shadowy figures having a conversation.
One figure, smaller should be kept vague. The other is a man who is slowly
dressing as the conversation takes place. The guy is putting on jeans and a
t-shirt and a leather jacket. In one panel, he's slicking his hair back with a
comb. Leave a fair amount of space for word balloons. Basically, what they're
saying is that "the shit has hit the fan". The figure who's getting
dressed is going to do something about it. The other one, basically, is sick of
struggling, sick of existing. I'll fill in the conversation after the artwork
is done. Keep everything shadowy. You can't even tell what sex the other figure
is. The one you can see is the character we will know as the Old Man, even
though he looks no older than twenty-four or so. Dress him the way you'd expect
a tough from the 50's to look--like Marlon Brando in THE WILD ONE.

Page Two

Splash
Page : This shot is of a woman and a guy at a table. There's a candle burning
to the left of the woman. She's in a dress that's cut to reveal her
cleavage...lots of beads, couple rings on her left hand. The room is full of
arcana...witch stuff. The guy is punk-looking (kind of like Johnny Rotten). The
woman has her hands on the tabletop. The guy's arms are crossed as he looks
down.

Guy:
"What do the cards say?"

Page Three

Panel
One: POV is from above the table. We can see the layout of the tarot cards on
the tabletop. (Examine diagram I'm sending along). The scene should be of the
entire table, with the characters visible.

Witch:
"It looks close, Dag. But I think you'll succeed."

Dag:
"Tell me, witch. Will they find him tonight?"

Panel
Two: Closeup of the witch poiting to card #6--it is the card, The Tower. Her
finger, pointing, and the card.

Witch:
"This is before you. Tonight. It's the current that is coming into
action."

Panel
Four: Her hand is now pointing to the card, The Lovers. In the layout of the
cards, it's card #4.

Witch:
"These are your tools. These are what you have to work with. They are
good. A good sign."

Panel
Five: Beside Panel Five. A guy and a girl. They are scary looking. He is tall
and lean. His face is gaunt. Both of them have shaded their eyes with mascara.
The guy is in black leather, hair black, very short, some chains. The girl is
shorter. She's wearing black pants, a black shirt that reveals her midrift. Her
hair, too, is black. They are coming into the crowd of the dance club, side by
side. Their faces are blank, intense.

Caption:
"Willa and Freddie. They'll find him."

Page Four

Panel
One: The witch is now pointing at card #3, the Page of Cups. Witch: "This
is your goal, your connection to your success."

Panel
Two: Beside Panel One. In the crowd, but sitting alone, is a blond kid. He's at
a table, looking into his mug of beer. (much like the card figure who's looking
into the cup)

Caption:
"I knew it. He's there."

Panel
Three: The witch is pointing at card #2, The Hermit.

Witch:
"This is your obstacle. A powerful obstacle. This is not good. Treason,
corruption..."

Panel
Four: Standing in the club, apart from the crowd, is a young man, maybe
twenty-five years old. Light hair and powerful build. Not as tall as Freddie,
but stouter, stronger looking. He's got a leather jacket, jeans, with pants
rolled up (like they did in the fifties), white t-shirt under the jacket. He's
got a cigarette in his mouth. He looks, basically, like a character right out
of some fifties thug movie.

Caption:
"The Old Man. I was afraid he'd try something. Damn."

Panel
Five: Closeup of the guy at the table with the witch. He's slamming his fist
down on the table. His face shows rage. His lips are peeled back, showing his
vampire fangs, his eyes glowing with anger.

Dag:
"Damn!"

Panel
Six: He's standing now, so violently that he's upended the table, the witch
flinching back. He's become almost inhuman in appearance, revealing his vampire
side.

Dag:
"Damn!" Really big balloon, this time, to emphasize his anger.

Page Five

Panel
One: Back at The Dungeon. Freddie, tall above the dancing crowd, the band
behind him on the stage. He's glaring at the blonde kid across the room.

Panel
Two: The Old Man is also peering across the room at the kid. To the Old Man's
left, we can see Freddie (about thirty feet away, dancers between them).

Panel
Three: Willa is beside at the kid's booth. She's standing there looking down at
him.

Willa:
"Hello. I'm Willa. What's your name?"

Kid:
"Jack. Siddown if you want."

Panel
Four: She's slid in right next to him, not across.

Willa:
"I like the way you look, Jack. How'd you like to go for a walk?"

Jack:
"No thanks. I'm waiting for the next band. They're going to let me do the
vocals on a set. I'm tryin' out."

Panel
Five: Closeup of Willa's hand gripping Jack's wrist.

Panel
Six: Jack is trying to pull away, but can't.

Jack:
"Hey! That hurts!"

Willa:
"You're coming with me, Jack."

Page Six

Panel
One: The Old Man is now standing beside the table, blocking Willa from standing
up. His left hand is on the tabletop, his right one on the back of the booth
seat, locking them in. Willa looks pissed. Jack looks confused, still trying to
get his hand loose.

Panel
Two: There's a clawed hand on the Old Man's jacket, a fistful of leather
gathered up in it.

Panel
Three: The Old Man has turned to face Freddie, who is holding onto him and
staring down. Freddie's face is going all crazy, his eyes glaring, his teeth
forming into fangs.

Freddie:
"I think the kid's going with us, Old Man."

Old
Man: "You fool! Not here. They'll see you like that!"

Panel
Four: Freddie now has the Old Man drawn away from the booth, both hands
gripping the other's jacket. He's really inhuman looking now.

Freddie:
"Who cares? Soon, it won't matter what they see!"

Panel
Five: Willa is up, dragging Jack with her, pulling him away from the booth and
into the crowd, many of whom are now looking toward Freddie and the Old Man.

Willa:
"C'mon, Jack. We're outta here."

Jack:
"Wait! No!"

Page Seven

Panel
One: Freddie has thrown the Old Man to the floor, now. Behind them, the band is
still playing. Some of the crowd is now looking at Freddie and the Old Man.
Willa and Jack are gone.

Freddie:
"Give it up, Old Man. Your days are past."

Panel
Two: Closeup of the Old Man's face. He's on the floor, gathering himself up.
His hands are clenched in rage. His eyes are wide, glowing. His teeth gritting,
just beginning to show his canines.

Old
Man: Small balloon, to indicate a whisper. "All right, then..."

Panel
Three: Big, splashy panel. The Old Man is up, his human guise mainly gone. His
hands are claws. His face is almost a muzzle, revealing teeth like a true
predator.

Old
Man: "You want it! You got it!"

Some
of the crowd around them see what's going on. Some of them are pointing,
staring--kind of an 'Oh, Fuck!' look on their faces...think what you'd say and
do if you saw something like that in your dance club.

Page Eight

Basically,
this page is a fight scene. The two vampires battle across the floor of
slamdancing, pogoing kids. Two monster tearing it up amidst all these
goth/punks. Have fun. I'll fill in the blanks, later, but don't worry about
much space for words or captions. This is kickass fighting. Just have them end
up on the street, with the Old Man winning, but Freddie not really that
concerned.

Page Nine

Panel
One: Willa is literally dragging Jack by the hand. They are at a door with an
"EXIT" sign overhead, obviously a back door. Jack's free hand is
gripping the doorjamb, Willa already out the door.

Jack:
"Let me GO!"

Panel
Two: Willa has turned, her face twisted in anger, but still human.

Willa:
"Listen, you. I'm here to keep that other guy away from you. If you want
to get out of here alive, then you'll come with me. Fight me if you want to,
but it want do you any good!"

Panel
Three: We see Jack being dragged out the door.

Panel
Four: The empty doorway. Door standing open.

Page Ten

Panel
One: Jack and Willa are running down the street now. It's mainly deserted,
since it's night, but there are some people out.

Willa:
"I know what you're thinking. You're thinking you can yell for help. Don't
do it."

Jack:
"Where are you taking me? Who were those other guys? What were they?"

Panel
Two: They've ducked down an alleyway, and they're no longer running, but she
still has Jack by the hand.

Willa:
"They're vampires. The tall one is named Freddie. The
other one we call The Old Man. He used to lead us. Not anymore."

Jeff:
"You're crazy."

Panel
Three: Will has turned to face Jack. Her face is not human.

Willa:
"Does this look like crazy to you?"

Panel
Four: Jack has his free arm up to shield himself, and he's backed against a
brick wall.

Jack:
"Jesus."

Willa:
"Hardly."

Panel
Five: Willa has released Jack's hand, now. She's just standing there, pointing
toward the end of the alley. Jack is staring at her.

Willa:
"We're going down there and through the park. Then we're going to grab my
car and we're going to meet someone. You aren't going to try to run away or
you're going to piss me off and I promise you don't want me pissed off."

Jack:
"What...whatever you say."

Panel
Six: We see the pair retreating down the alleyway.

Page Eleven

I
want this page to be a series of panels of Jack and Willa climbing a hill in
the park they're going through. As they climb the hill and speak, Jack goes, in
the eyes of Willa, from looking like a normal human to becoming a webwork of
veins and arteries. This signifies her growing bloodlust and hunger for him. At
the top of the hill, he looks just like some kind of medical diagram--all veins
and arteries, with his heart glowing in the center.

Panel
One: Jack and Willa are now in a park. They're at the bottom of a grassy hill.

Jack:
"At least you can tell me what's going on. Why are you so strong?"

Willa:
"What's going on is that you're going to meet Dag." Thought balloon: 'And I'm so strong
because I'm a vampire.'

Jack:
"Who's Dag?"

Panel
Two: They're now partway up the hill.

Willa:
"Dag is our leader. He told us to get you. Don't ask me why he wants you
or how he knew where you'd be, because I don't know. I only know you're
special, in his eyes."

Jack:
"I've never met anyone named Dag. I've never heard of anyone named
Dag. Why don't you just let me go?"

Panel
Three: They're almost at the top of the hill, and there are trees looming around
them, naked limbs drooping down like gnarled fingers. No leaves.

Willa:
"Don't be...stupid, kid. I'm not going to let you go. You're...important
to Dag. That's all...that's all I know."

Jack:
"What's wrong with you?"

Panel
Four: They're now at the top of the hill. The trees around them really look
menacing. Jack is now, in Willa's view, just something to feast upon. Her
vampire facing is partially revealed.

Monday, November 26, 2012

My agent (Bob Fleck of the The Fleck Agency) has handled the renewal of the film option for THE FLOCK to Don Murphy (at Angry Films) and John Wells (at the John Wells Company). Hopefully we'll see the screenplay advance to production in the coming months.

Well, it's back to writing. In the meantime, one of the funniest cartoons I ever saw from Gary Larson from his late (and greatly lamented) FAR SIDE:

Sunday, November 25, 2012

The following is paraphrased from a bit of the blog that I wrote several years ago. I'm resurrecting a portion of it here, along with the original story that I was discussing.When
I was a young writer trying to sell short stories for a penny a word
and, hopefully, some exposure in whatever slick or semi-pro magazine I
could crack, I was packed with stories. Frankly, I was bursting at the
seams to let them all out. I'd write like crazy and send stories out to
magazines eight, nine, ten at a time. I kept careful records of where my
stories were and who had them and who'd rejected them and who was
likely to buy them and who'd bought them, etc. etc.There
was this guy whose name I'd see from time to time in those days when I
was in my twenties and struggling like mad to make a sale. He was always
around. Usually hanging about with folk who'd already "made it". Seemed
a nice enough fellow, though, and full of ideas.I forgot about him while I was trying to sell my yarns. He vanished into the background.

And,
slowly, I began to realize that the old rule--"the plot's the
thing"--had fallen away. It wasn't that anymore. Things had deteriorated
to such an extent that the market had boiled it down to simply the
basic idea: the one-line Hollywood pitch. Yeah, things had gotten that
bad, even by the time I was entering my early 30s. Alas.Once,
I submitted a short story to a certain horror magazine being co-edited
by a certain part-time writer/editor. That story was "One of Those
Days". It was a decent story, but with a really good idea. That idea was
this:What if everyone in the USA who owned a gun suddenly walked out their door with those guns and started shooting?That
was the idea. So it became my short story "One of Those Days" and I
sent it out to that certain magazine and that certain editor/writer. It
was rejected. I still have the rejection letter. The editor/writer liked
it, but said that it lacked a certain "impetus". His word: impetus.I
forgot about the rejection letter (but stored it in a folder as I did
with all of my rejection letters). A couple months passed. I got a
review copy of the new issue of that certain magazine co-edited by that
certain writer/editor who'd told me that my story lacked that certain
"impetus". I opened the magazine and started reading. The feature story
in that magazine was by that editor/writer who'd rejected my story.
Preceding it was a brief editorial by the publisher explaining how the
issue had been ready to go to press when his co-editor had dropped that
story in his lap. It was so good that he had to lay out the issue all
over again so that he could include his co-editor's story that, the
publisher explained, had just been written.The plot of that story?What if everyone in the USA who had a gun suddenly walked out their doors with those guns and started using them?Uh
huh. I was really, really pissed. But what could I do? Yeah, I had the
rejection letter. Yeah, I had my story. Yeah, there was a mighty huge
chunk of circumstantial evidence of a certain level of plagiarism there.
But really? What could I do?In
addition, this certain writer/editor had come up with a far more effective
title for his version of my story than I had used. That really pissed me
off, too--titles have always been a problem for me.Ah, well.One
of these days I may take this up in more specific terms. Maybe. Maybe
not. I just ain't sure. But the thing that nasty experience taught me
more than any other was the value of "the Idea". Hang onto it. Make sure
you can make it your own, some way.That
dude that I used to see way back when? The guy who was always hanging
out with other creative folk? He's gone on to make quite a living for
himself selling ideas. Not even stories or novels. Just ideas. At least
one of them was made into a major motion picture. My
hat's off to him. He discovered a way to cash in on his basic idea
without letting someone else steal it from him.The idea, dudes. That's the thing.

And here, for the first time, is that little story, written when I was a very young writer trying to find homes for my work:

"One of Those Days"

copyright 2012

by

James
Robert Smith

I couldn't believe I'd gotten through.

"Von," I said. I knew I sounded
breathless, but whoever had picked up on the other end had so far said nothing.
Almost a second had passed since I'd spoken that single word. Amos

Tucker's blood
was still soaking into my shirt. Damned lucky I'd wrested the gun from him, or
it would have been my blood soaking into his shirt.

"Von? Is it you?" Another
second. I drew in a ragged breath.

"Yes, Mike. It's me." I could
hear the washing machine in the background. How mundane. Outside the warehouse,
my workplace, I could hear an odd gunshot here and there. Enough to make me
worry about getting home alive.

"Are you okay?" I asked.
Whatever had started up in

Washington
the month before had spread. We'd all figured something weird was going
on, despite the news blackouts and the sugges­tions that we all continue life
as if things were normal. It was one thing when the Speaker of the House had
his brains blown out by the Minority Whip, but another thing entirely when your
supervisor pulled a gun on you with murderous intent. I heard another gunshot
outside, but the 150,000 square foot building was strangely silent. Everyone
had run like Hell, except for Vicki and Cindi, two of the office girls--and
their hands were still clutched at one another's dead necks. Urine was pooling
around their strangely contorted bodies and I hated standing so close, but this
was the only working phone. I felt breakfast knocking at the door to my throat.

"I'm okay," I heard Von tell me.

"Jesus," I said. "Thank
goodness. Now listen to me."

"Yes?"

This was crazy. I knew how I
looked. I could see sticky little driblets of blood patting the carpet at my
feet. Amos had been so full of blood. And here I was, a crimson mess,
just talking to my wife. Another day at work.

"Von, are the doors locked? Have you
latched the windows?" Silence again, for too long, I figured.

"What's going on, Mike? I've
been hearing gunshots almost all morning. Almost since you left for work. And I
could swear I heard Mrs. Douglas screaming a while ago. Her husband, too. I've
been afraid to check, and 911 doesn't ever pick up. I tried watching the news
channel and they keep repeating a pre-recorded message about some kind of mass hysteria."

"Listen, Von. Are you in front of a
window?"

"A window?"

"Yes. Yes." I sounded harsh, I
knew.

"Well, yes."

"Von. Close all the curtains and draw
the blinds. Can you do that? Keep the doors locked, and for God's sake don't
let Timmy go outside. Can you do that until I get home?" I fumbled in my
pocket, making sure I'd not lost my keys in the struggle with Amos. He'd been a
big guy; lifted weights and all that. Just good luck that crowbar had been at
my hand when he'd gotten me down. If not for that, I'd never have beaten him
and pried that gun out of his fingers. I don't think I'd ever get over seeing
him continue to try with that steel rod sticking out of his skull.

"Yes, Mike. I can do that. I'll do
it."

"And Timmy?" Another gunshot. I
couldn't tell if it was outside or coming over the phoneline.

"I won't let him out of my
sight."

"I'll get home as quick as I can,
honey. Just don't open the door until I get there. Okay?"

Von sighed, and then something like a sob.

"Von?"

"That's strange," she said.

"What? What's strange?" There
was panic in my voice. I was impotent, fifteen minutes from home under normal
circumstances.

"Ramona is driving up the street. I
never thought I'd see that witch again."

Oh, my God! "Von! Don't let
her see you! Don't let her in! Do you hear me? I'm coming home!" I hung
up. Ramona Golding had been our next-door neighbor for six years. She and her
husband and kid had moved away six months before. Von and Ramona had always
hated one another's guts. I was wishing we owned a gun. Two guns. Ten of the
sons-of-bitches.

Leaving Amos, Cindi and Vicki to the
emptiness of the warehouse, I opened the front door of Union Stateside Office
Distributors and stepped out. Freedom Drive was empty. It was almost lunch hour
and should have been relatively busy, the four lanes full of hungry workers
running off for a fast bite of fast food. The sun was shining bright and yellow
and it was really a most pleasant day, otherwise. I'd heard the radio
weatherman say that the humidity was only 20% and the temperature a very
comfortable 74. But there had been an edge in his voice and he'd started
screaming at someone, screaming that someone or another made more than he did
that faggot bastard sucking the station manager's cock and take that,
followed by a gunshot. That was about the time I had heard the girls screaming
in the office, and that was very shortly before Amos had caught me running down
the ramp. Then the fight to the death.

I ran across the emptied parking lot. It
was horrible when Amos and I had been rolling around on the concrete floor, he
gnashing his teeth and actually foaming at the mouth. I'd screamed for
help, but our co-workers had fled, and I couldn't really blame them, but it was
horrible hearing their cars starting up, leaving me to fend for myself. I
probably would have done the same thing. They must have been worrying about
their families.

Opening the car door, I was unable to sit
down. I had to stand back up and pull the pistol out of my pocket. A .38
Special: I was surprised it fit there, and even more surprised I still had it.
For the heck of it, I opened the chamber and looked--four shots remained. I
slid a bullet out. Dum dums. I was lucky neither of the two shots Amos had
gotten off had struck me. Even an extremity shot would have been deadly. I knew
that much about guns and ammo.

Tossing the pistol onto the seat, I sat
and started the car: my good, old, reliable Ford Wagon. The engine sprang to
life and I backed out of the space, scraping Amos' pickup truck and doing about
four hundred dollars damage to my own car. I gave that about as much thought as
a passing breeze as I jammed the pedal down and left rubber smoke in the dust.
The car leaped the curb and my shocks held as I slammed onto Freedom Drive. I
was going home and I was going to do it in record time. Richard Petty would
have been proud.

As I approached the Brookshire Freeway I
could see some other cars headed north, as I was. Two were side by side, and
even from a half mile away I could see that the drivers were screaming at each
other. While I watched, they actually steered into one another, small
parts falling away from them, even some sparks. I could hear gunshots, of course.
Pow. Pow. And then the one on the right, a late model Cadillac, veered
and went bouncing off the concrete abutment there; the driver's face was a red
ball. The other car, a Lexus, sped up and vanished around the curve that led on
over to I-85. Goodbye.

Strangely, almost automatically, and
despite the high rate of speed at which I was travelling, I reached out and
punched the power button for the radio. Dead air. Public Radio was gone. I
punched in the second programmed spot, an oldie station. It, too, was silent. I
jammed the scan button. After four stops, there was a voice. 91.8, a religious
station I usually avoided, but at least it was a human voice.

I punched the scan button once more.
107.4, the local urban contemporary station had a voice. A woman was talking
calmly. Somewhere in the background I could hear a constant thumping noise; it
wasn't music. "I've locked myself here in the soundroom," she said.
"I'm not sure how this stuff works," she said. "If anyone out
there can hear me, please send the police out to the station. They're trying to
get in. One of the guys I work with. Pete Wilkins. He wants to kill me. If he gets in and you can hear me, his name is Pete
Wilkins and he's the lead salesman for the station.

"Please," she said. I could hear
old Petey-boy pounding with something heavy on the padded door. "Please
help me."

I turned the radio off.

The ramp from the freeway to Independence
Drive was ahead. Slowing just enough to keep from leaving the road, I veered
right, tires squealing. The .38 Special scampered across the seat to lie snugly
against my thigh. Looking up, I saw movement on the overpass above and was able
to floor it, giving me just enough speed to avoid the hundred pound chunk of
concrete three kids had heaved over just for me. It landed on the
pavement behind me; I actually felt it hit. I sped on, glancing back to see the
three stooges raging, one of them thinking to fling me the bird.

Von and Timmy. Von and Timmy, I
thought.

A mile down Independence and still no
other traffic. I had to slow down because of a construction site, but I could
see no one on this, the busiest street in the Southeastern United States. I
wasn't looking for the bulldozer and so almost didn't see it as it lurched onto
the road in front of me. There were at least two compact cars under its treads,
quite a bit more compact than before. Just in time, I hit the brakes, swerved
broadside into the yellow, metal behemoth. The passenger side of the station
wagon bowed in, a screeching noise yelled out from under the vehicle, glass
spider-webbed and covered me in opaque little angular confetti. But, when I
gunned the car, it moved, shuddering away from the dozer.

I leaped the median.
"Motherfucker," I heard the operator scream. "Mother!" And
"Fucker," he repeated. The station wagon shook and moaned and only
did fifty, but I left the bulldozer far behind.

The car felt like a target. I had it
floored and all I could do was a little over fifty miler per hour. There were
other cars on the street now. A few people pointed at me from the parking lots
of shopping centers. I looked right and could see that the entrance to
ComputerLand was blockaded. There were the now obligatory gunshots. No one
seemed to be shooting at me, though, and that was a relief. As I turned off of
Independence and onto Sharon Aveneue the motor lurched and belched a whitish
smoke tinged in black. I could still do fifty if I kept it floored, so I didn't
sweat it. Two more miles and I would be home.

I had to turn again, to pass Easttowne
Mall, and the wagon fought me every degree of the turn. The front end shuddered
and the whole car swayed and the engine continued to burp a steady stream of
soupy smoke. But I didn't think about anything but making it to my own
neighborhood.

Almost, because of my intensity, I didn't
see the pickup truck looming behind me. It had approached so closely that it
filled my rear view mirror. I think its front bumper was nearly touching my
back one; the great black mass of it seemed to dwarf me.

Desperately, I reached down and gripped
the .38 Special with which Amos had tried to kill me. I hefted it in my left
hand and held it out the window. A stupid move, maybe, but I couldn't think of
anything else to do.

The pickup truck faded back, and I could
see that the driver was a boy, maybe no older than thirteen or so. It could
have been that he was just trying to stick close to somebody else who was
driving. I don't know. All I wanted was to get home.

Farmdale Drive was on my right and it took
everything I had to twist the steering wheel in that direction. The car moved,
stubbornly, and I made the turn at three or four miles per hour, maybe. With
the pedal touching metal the car slowly picked up speed until I was doing
thirty. Familiar houses were all around. Well-mown lawns and mailboxes lay
about me, looking as they almost always did, if you discounted the odd body
lying here and there, some of them with loved ones wailing over them. I hadn't
seen a single police officer and wondered where they all were.

Hysteria, Von had quoted. I had
heard rumors. Some were affected and others weren't. I hardly cared. I just
wanted to be home.

As I came down Redbud Street I could see
my own cul de sac ahead. The engine popped, loudly, like just another gunshot,
and it died. I'd been going about thirty-five miles per hour, so I just let it
cruise up to the little street my house was on. Our three-bedroom ranch was
there, lawn newly mowed, red brick practically glowing from a recent pressure
wash. My wife's car was in the drive, and so was Ramona Golding's blue Chevy
van. I didn't see the former neighbor.

As I rolled up, I noticed the shattered
kitchen window, the one that our dining table sat next to, the one we looked through as we ate our family meals together every day. The flagpole my wife used
to fly her colorful banners had been taken down and used to batter through the
glass. I could see the image of a cat fluttering on the tattered remains of the
banner my wife had flown most recently: the fabric was impaled in the shards of
glass.

Without braking the car, I opened the door
and leaped out and hit the ground running. Somehow, without really even
thinking about it, I had picked up the gun again and had it in my right hand.
"Von," I screamed. "Timmy!"

There was no answer as I reached the door.
Consequences be damned, I unlocked it and flung it open. There was blood on the
vinyl floor in the little foyer. I could see legs jutting out from the
den, the body lying where I could not see it and more blood on the new carpet
Von had recently had installed there. "Von," I screamed again.

The impact struck me from the left, from
the kitchen, where I hadn't been looking, nearly knocking me to the floor. I
lost my grip on the pistol and it fell.

"Mike! Oh, Mike!" Von had her
arms around me. She was sobbing. Timmy was at my legs, clinging there, but
silent, looking up at me.

"What happened," I asked.

"Ramona tried to get in, but I could
see she had a knife. She was screaming at me, Mike. She said I was a bitch and
made her life miserable and she was going to kill me and Timmy, too.

"I had the doors and windows latched,
just like you told me to do, but she broke in." Von sobbed some more,
trying to catch her breath.

"What did you do to her?"

"One of your hammers," she told
me. "I hit her with it. I killed her," she said.

Finally, I let out a little of the awful
tension I'd felt all day. I breathed in and let out a long, long sigh, feeling
my wife holding onto me and my little boy at my side. My fingers found Timmy's
hair and I rubbed the top of his seven-years-old head, feeling his perfect
blonde hair fluffing against my palm. My family.

Behind us, there was a sound of feet on
the grit of the walkway. Pushing Von and Timmy behind me, I faced the open door
to see who it was.

A pale, frightened face slowly appeared
around the doorjamb. "Muh-Mister Puh-Patterson," someone said.

Moving slowly, the
small woman came into view. Her face was full of fear and terror. I could only
wonder what she'd been through. It was Mrs. Traynor, a middle-aged divorced
woman who lived behind us.

"I can't get in touch with any of my
family," she said, her voice whining. "I can't understand what's
going on around here. I--I heard the glass crashing over here, but I was afraid
to come out.

"Are you all okay?" she asked,
her eyes staring. I could tell she was in shock.

"Yes," I told her. "We're
all okay, here." I knelt down and retrieved the pistol Von's embrace had
dislodged from my hand.

Standing there, saying nothing, Von and I
looked into one another's eyes and then at Mrs. Traynor. We didn't like her.
She disgusted us.

About Me

I'm a laborer. Formerly I worked as a letter carrier for the USPS. I'm also a writer with over seventy published short stories, hundreds of pages of comic book scripts, scores of reviews, and several novels, among them THE FLOCK. In July 2009, Angry Films announced that they'd optioned the film rights to my novel, THE FLOCK via Warner Brothers. I also edited the Poe-themed anthology EVERMORE for Arkham House Books. My short story collection, A CONFEDERACY OF HORRORS was published by Hippocampus Books in 2015. I'm always had at work on another novel and the occasional short story.
All contents of this blog are copyright by James Robert Smith.